


Walking The New Road

by deletable_bird



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Banter, Chefs, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluffy Ending, Heterosexuality, Hot Chocolate, Kissing, Laughter, Restaurants, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Snow, Starbucks, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Winter, holy shit i used that tag, wtf is my life coming to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4596984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deletable_bird/pseuds/deletable_bird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He raises an eyebrow above his shades. “You have beautiful eyes.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You stop dead, staring at him. Suddenly, you’re blushing. “Why—?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He shrugs. “Customer said to give his compliments to the chef.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fuck him. Fuck him and the ridiculously flattering horse he rode in on.</em>
</p><p>In Which Compliments Are Given, Phone Calls Are Made, And Two Adorkable Morons Get Together At Last</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking The New Road

“Hey, Chef Harley!”

You turn around, confused but curious. The waiter with the shades is leaning around the doorway to the kitchens, a smirk on his face and a platter under his arm. You can’t help being annoyed—you’re trying to work here, and the busier you are the less you have to think before your shift finally ends and you can escape into the winter outside.

“What?” you snap, rubbing your temples gingerly. Your headache set in an hour ago and hasn’t let up since.

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical at your rudeness. “You have beautiful eyes.”

You stop dead, staring at him. Suddenly, you’re blushing. “Why—?”

He shrugs. “Customer said to give his compliments to the chef.”

He’s gone the next moment, and you’re left staring after him, unexpected happiness bubbling up inside you.

That’s the first genuinely nice thing anyone’s said to you all day.

* * *

“Three specials, one without garlic, the other two vegetarian, and a cranberry mousse cake, gluten-free,” someone calls from the door, and you literally cast your hands up to the heavens. What the _fuck_ , customers? What the fuck, _God_? You applied to this restaurant not because you _like cooking_ , but because you’re unfortunately good at it and you _needed a job_. It was definitely _not _to _pander to the every whim_ of these whiners from hell and bake their _fucking gluten-free cake.___

You whirl around, just about snarling. “That is _not_ a valid order,” you spit, only to stop dead. The waiter with the sunglasses smirks at you, tilting his aforementioned shades down the bridge of his nose.

“What can I say, Chef Harley,” he purrs, “those hands are too talented not to test.” He winks, and you can see his eyes glinting in the light of the fluorescents. He whirls around on one immaculately shod heel, leaving you frozen and blushing lava-esque.

Fuck him. Fuck him and the ridiculously flattering horse he rode in on.

* * *

“That Strider guy likes you, you know,” Feferi says, joining you at the stove under the pretext of folding a dishtowel. You look over at her, vaguely amused, as your hands dance the practiced routine of cooking your famous cream cheese potato omelette.

“Nah, he’s just joking,” you say.

“He’s not,” she says, echoing your thoughts.

“I’m going to need more proof than that,” you tell her, grinning around your once again viciously pounding headache.

She then proceeds to call Rose over, who launches directly into a detailed analysis of Mr. Strider’s behavior around you, which she claims should be completely valid seeing as she is related to the aforementioned Mr. Strider and has known him since her wee years, thus reinforcing her completely accurate theory that yes, he totally has a crush on you, stop denying it Jade.

You laugh at them on the outside, but honestly, you’re half-starting to believe it.

* * *

“Hey Jade! Hey Fef! Oh my God, Rose, you complete absolute I do not even know what, you’re still working here, holy underpants.”

It’s Terezi, whirling into the kitchen with snow on her coat and filling it up to the brim with her bubbling infectious hyena laughter and suggestive elbows to the ribs and ridiculously obtrusive poking into other people’s beeswax, and when she leaves (you only let her back here because you all know her and you wouldn’t be able to stop her anyway) the entire staff is aeons more cheerful.

Two minutes later she darts back in, running over to you to press a scrap of paper in your hand and a kiss to your cheek before blessing you with her giant grin and disappearing once more. 

You watch her go with a smile before unfolding the note. On it are ten digits, scrawled in a rather crabbed, spiky hand, almost entirely unlike your own loopy flirty script. Underneath the phone number there’s that dorky sunglasses emoji you only use when you’re feeling especially cool.

You have an inkling you know exactly who it’s from.

* * *

_“Yo.”_

“Hey, yes, hi, it’s Jade from that restaurant place the New Road, is this, um, Strider?”

_“Holy fuck, are you that girl that Dave’s always denying he’s completely whipped for?”_

“Yeah! Yeah that’s probably me.”

_“Damn, you got a nice voice.”_

“Oh! Thanks, um―”

_“Yeah, call me Bro.”_

“Yeah, okay, thanks, Bro. Can I talk to, um―”

_“Dave? Shit yeah, two seconds. Lemme go get him. DAVE!”_

_“What the fuck is it?”_

_“He’s coming.”_

“Okay!”

* * *

_“Holy shit.”_

“Yeah?”

_“I am so fucking sorry you had to talk to Bro, dear Lord. Are you mentally scarred? I bet you’re scarred physically as well. ‘Oh Miss Harley, I’m so sorry but you’re going to be in intensive care for the rest of your life, that conversation with Dave’s brother has broken your mind and body beyond repair’―”_

“Well, I―”

_“‘Do you have a therapist preference oh no wait there’s only one left holy shit it’s the very same man that broke you, why are you screaming Miss Harley please stop screaming everything will be okay’―”_

“Dave!”

_“Yeah?”_

“Shut up.”

_“My lips are sealed. Preferably, sealed around your―”_

“Okay, that’s good! You can really shut up now!”

* * *

You'd never admit that you think so, but his laugh is a thing of beauty.

* * *

“I was so fucking worried you’d be one of those creepy-ass people who asks their date to go eat at the restaurant they work at and then they just flaunt their entire career in the other person’s face.”

“You work there too, doofus!”

“Nah, but the point is you didn’t do that, therefore you’ve gained my approval.”

“That’s very nice, do you want coffee?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not.”

He bypasses the really nice little locally-owned coffee shop just a couple blocks away from the New Road and instead propels you forcibly into a run-of-the-mill Starbucks, insisting the ironic value is much more important than the quality of the coffee. You laugh and order a peppermint hot chocolate because tis the season (Christmas is just around the corner, and you’re ridiculously happy, despite the fact that you’re still working every day).

Dave orders a vanilla latte which cracks you up ("It’s such a _girly_ drink!” “Shut up Harley.”) and you take your drinks to-go and stroll up and down the snowy street, poking fun at strangers and kind-of window-shopping.

It’s only after you actually walk straight into a lamppost because you’re too busy watching Dave ranting about Santa and kiwi smoothies that the thought of leaving crosses your mind. Five minutes later you check your watch, and immediately throw yourself into a dramatic swoon because you’ve been wandering around with this absolute idiot for three and a half hours, and also why not? You’re in the mood.

And holy fuck, he catches you.

You’re at an awkward angle, belly-up and sort of tilted like a plank with him supporting you with an arm under your shoulders, his other arm crossing over your stomach and holding you up by the waist. You can feel him breathing even through about five layers of clothing, and his face is inches away from yours, and you’re blushing like nobody’s business.

“Well hello there, Mistress Harley,” he purrs, and you reach up with your mittened hands and pull his face down for a kiss.

He tastes like the girl drink he just finished, and his mouth is soft and, though cold, quickly warming against yours. When you break apart, you’re smiling wider than ever despite your blush and your eyes are fixed on his parted lips. You can feel his gaze locked on your face even through the ridiculous sunglasses you’ve never once seen him without.

“Do you ever take those douche glasses off?” you ask him.

“Only for the special ones,” he replies.

“Am I a special one?”

“You betcha.”

* * *

Apparently, he adores your laugh just as much as you love his.

* * *

“Hey, Mister Strider!”

He turns, confused but curious. You’re leaning around the doorway to the kitchen, a dishtowel over your shoulder and a smile on your face. The moment you lock eyes your mind flashes to the winter outside that you’ll be sharing with him in just an hour or two.

“What?” he calls, crossing his arms in a mock challenge. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“You have beautiful eyes.”

He stops dead. Even in the mellow lighting of the main restaurant, you can see the blush gauzing his cheekbones. “You―” he starts. You put a finger over your lips, and he shuts his mouth.

“The chef had a compliment,” you say, shrugging, and turn away from the slowly awakening smile on his face with a similar expression spreading across your own.

You walk back into the kitchen, your plans for the evening whirling around your head like a winter wind. Finally, you’ve come to the terms that you fucking hate this job. Tonight, the night before Christmas, you’re going to quit, and next week you’re scheduled to start working at the local animal shelter where, miraculously, you’ve secured a part-time paying job. To fill the rest of your empty time, you have a kid’s science center to apply to, and of course you also have Dave.

The idiot won’t leave your side, and you like his stupid jokes. You lose track of time when you’re with him, and he says (and this is a direct quote) “Whenever we kiss I’m in outer space, Harley, can’t you tell?” He says he’ll never leave you, and you humor him, even though you don’t yet know if it’s true or not.

Ah, fuck it.

It’s Christmas Eve, and you’re walking the new road with this fucker.


End file.
